


If It Meant I Could Hold Your Hand

by myheroiscurly



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Developing Relationship, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I'll add more tags as the story goes on, I'm Sorry, M/M, Or Is he?, Post-Reichenbach, Sadness, Sherlock is dead, but I don't want to give anything away, he makes John solve the ultimate case, kind of canon-compliant as John thinks back to their old cases, mostly John's POV at first, please bear with me, very angsty in fact
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:37:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8558164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myheroiscurly/pseuds/myheroiscurly
Summary: Even when he's dead, Sherlock Holmes is still the most annoyingly clever man John has ever met because somehow, when out of nowhere a note appears on Johns desk, ordering him to go on a hunt to find an unknown treasure, he still finds himself following Sherlocks lead._______
"How does he do this, Mycroft? Even when he's dead he still commandeers me around like I'm his personal slave." John complains quietly, fondness and exasperation mixing with the sadness in his voice."That's my brother for you, Dr. Watson." Mycroft's smile deepens into the rare, honest smile that John has barely ever seen before. It makes him look a lot more like Sherlock, he realises, and the sight of that smile tugs painfully at the strings of his heart. "I guess it is." ______
 
Title taken from Follow You by Bring Me The Horizon.





	1. Cross Your Heart And Hope To Die

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome, thank you so much for deciding to go on this story's journey with me, I hope you'll enjoy it.  
> This may be my first Sherlock fic but it's not the first fic/story I've ever written, and I'm very excited for it. I have a lot of chapters finished or almost finished so I hope I'll be able to update quite regularly. If I don't, please don't hate me.   
> There will be a list of song suggestions at the beginning of every chapter, you don't have to listen to the music but I always find that the right song makes reading so much better and really strengthens the emotions portrayed in the chapter.   
> Anyway, I'll stop rambling now and let you get to the first chapter. I hope you'll enjoy it, please let me know what you think in the comments, I'm always grateful for every kind of feedback I can get.   
> Lots of love,  
> Lily x

**Songs for this chapter:**

**Echo, Jason Walker**  
**Somebody To Die For, Hurts**  
**Follow You, Bring Me The Horizon**

* * *

 

 

"SHERLOCK!"  
Gasping, John shoots up in his bed, awoken by his own screaming. The blankets pool around him in a sweat-soaked cocoon, wrapped around his trembling limbs as he struggles to break free. He needs to breathe, needs to get out of their swallowing tightness, needs to get air into his lungs to wash away the mess inside his head and chest.  
With a shaking hand he pushes the damp duvet down and sits up, his heart hammering inside his chest, threatening to burst his ribcage with every painful, heavy thud. He can still feel the echo of his nightmare in his bones, that deep voice thrumming through his veins, breaking in despair.  
" _Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me_?" Taking a deep breath, John presses a clammy hand against his lips, preventing another scream from falling from them. He squeezes his eyes shut, desperate to erase the images in his head but they're burned into his mind for good, vivid and forceful and just as heartbreaking as the first time. Sherlock, standing tall and strong on that rooftop, that damn coat floating lightly in the afternoon breeze. John hadn't been able to see it, but he'd known from the sound of Sherlocks voice that his hand holding the phone had been trembling, shaking ever so slightly as he prepared for what he had to do. It'd been obvious in the way his voice broke in the middle of the next sentence, when he told John that this phone call was his note.  
" _Because that's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?_ " Sherlock had sounded so hopeless, defeated, an emotion that John had never associated with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock had always been so damn clever, so smart and above it all, so sure of himself but as he'd stood there, high up on the roof, John had known that those bright eyes were filled with tears. He'd known it and he couldn't do anything about it; he'd just stood there, watching, staring up at his friend in utter disbelief with his heart beating madly inside his chest, spreading dread through his veins.  
" _Goodbye, John._ "

"No," John gasps, pushing himself up from his bed as he runs a hand across his face, covering his eyes as if it could erase the pictures flashing behind his lids. He blindly stumbles through the room, unsure of where he is going but he knows he has to get away from the pain threatening to choke him. His eyes are burning with unshed tears, tears that he refuses to let himself cry, not this time, not again, and there's an ice cold numbness spreading through his body that chills him down to the core. "God, _no_."  
A sob finally pushes past his lips, just one hiccup of a breath but the dam is broken and John sinks to his knees in the middle of his bedroom and cries. He cries and cries, begging the tears to wash away the images in his head, Sherlocks body hitting the cold concrete, his blood covered face, those bright, pale eyes staring blankly at the smudgy London sky, unseeing - but it's no use. The memories pull him under like they do almost every night and he gives in, lets the waves rush over him, lets them drown him. John wraps trembling arms around his legs and curls up, right there on the carpet, hoping that he won't fall to pieces, and lets himself sink.

 

  
-

 

  
Squaring his shoulders John gives himself a reassuring nod that seems more stiff than encouraging. He stares ahead at the simple black tombstone, polished and shiny - without any doubt Mycroft's doing - the gold inscription sparkling brightly in the faint afternoon sun. **Sherlock Holmes** , the tombstone reads, just two simple words that send a painful jolt through John's body. He wants to step closer, wants to run his fingers over the name engraved into the spotless marble but he can't, he's rooted in place. His trembling legs seem frozen, unable to function and he just needs a moment to breathe, to just stare ahead and wonder where the hell he went wrong. Why everything fell apart.  
That first day when he'd met Sherlock, all tousled dark curls and bright eyes in that unbelievable colour that John still can't define but can picture perfectly, something inside him seemed to snap. Something that had been nagging at him since he left Afghanistan, some itch inside his body that he couldn't explain, but as soon as he'd laid eyes on Sherlock that itch seemed soothed, the longing appeased. And then Sherlock had opened his mouth to speak, reading half of John's life story from the way his hair was cut and the scratches on his phone, and John was hooked. He'd been the most interesting person John had ever encountered and when Sherlock had asked him if he wanted to help solve a crime John didn't hesitate for one second before following Sherlock through London in a crazy race to find the murderer. Even after almost two years of living together, Sherlock is still the most fascinating person John has ever seen.

 _Was_.

  
Right. Clearing his throat, John pushes the memories away from his mind, shoving images of 221Bs warmth and Sherlock's little smirk every time he'd solved a case into some dark corner in his brain and focuses on the grave in front of him. Because Sherlock isn't there anymore. He jumped, jumped off a fucking building while John stood there and watched and could do absolutely nothing and John is still furious, absolutely livid that Sherlock would do that to him, but most of all he's utterly, overwhelmingly sad. He just wants his best friend back, including thumbs in the fridge and that stupid skull on the mantelpiece.

"How?" John finds himself whisper as he slowly edges closer, taking shaking, tiny steps towards the tombstone, his shoulders stiff and squared as if he's expecting a blow to the head. "How could you do this to me?" The words are raw, resembling a croak rather than a firm voice and John has to stop himself, because he didn't come here to insult Sherlock. He's here because there's something he wanted to say, always, and he never has. Now, looking at the place where Sherlock's body is buried, he knows it's too late but he wants to say it anyway. Just once, just to get it out.  
"You..." he starts and stops again, unsure how to do this. John looks around the empty graveyard - tall trees with thick, dark green leaves are the only ones watching, and he knows they'll keep this conversation their secret. So he forces himself to go on, forces his voice to remain steady. "...were the best man and the most human... human being that I've ever known. I was so alone, and I owe you so much." He exhales deeply, his bottom lip quivering so he bites down forcefully, nearly breaking the skin as he tries to keep the tears in.  
"There's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock. For me. Don't be dead. Would you... Just for me? Just stop it. Stop this."  
John knows Sherlock can't hear him. He knows that there's no one around but him, the trees and the tombstone, smooth and bitterly cold against his fingertips. He knows Sherlock is gone, gone forever and John will never get to see him again, will never get to run through the city with him chasing murderers or simply sit at home in their designated chairs with a steaming cuppa in front of them, Mrs Hudson puttering around downstairs. The thought isn't new to him, that Sherlock is gone, he's had weeks to get used to it yet it still hits John with full force every time. More often than not he turns around to tell Sherlock a silly joke or make some witty comment only to find the space next to him empty, and each time it happens Johns heart breaks a little bit more. Right now, standing in front of Sherlock's grave where it all becomes so real, so unavoidably and undeniably true, John's heart is a shattered mess of ragged shards and blood and he can't keep the tears in anymore. So John stands there, one hand still resting on the tombstone of his best friend's grave, and cries.

 

-

 

  
John's footsteps are heavy on the worn-out stairs, the old wood creaking in protest under John's weight. He pushes the door open and steps inside the almost empty flat, sinking heavily onto his unmade bed. The tears have dried now, he's had enough time on the long tube ride to his flat to compose himself, and right now John just feels empty, defeated, as if all the life inside him has left along with the tears he cried at Sherlock's grave.  
With a deep sigh he looks around the flat he rented a few weeks ago, his heart giving a feeble twitch of longing at the sight of unpacked boxes and empty white walls. He desperately longs to be back at Baker Street, in their cozy, tiny flat that had been filled to the brim with all sorts of rubbish Sherlock had acquired over the years, Petri dishes with questionable substances in them littering the kitchen table and their two chairs sitting invitingly in the living room.  
But as much as John longs to be at Baker Street he also knows he can't ever go back there, not when the memory of Sherlock is engraved into every corner of the flat, alive in all the clutter lying around. Not when all he sees is Sherlock wearing those stupid goggles as he nearly burns down the kitchen in an experiment to find out more about tobacco ash, because knowing about 243 different kinds is apparently not enough.  
A weak chuckle falls from John's lips and he shakes his head in fond mockery, thinking back to how these experiments intimidated him at first but eventually he'd learned to see them as a part of Sherlock, this ridiculously clever man that could figure out everything but was so helpless when it came to interacting with people and feelings. Sherlock never felt entirely comfortable around people, John knows that. He also knows that Sherlock did feel the most comfortable in their little hiding place at Baker Street, when it was just the two of them bickering over who would get the groceries or wether they'd order takeaway for dinner or actually cook something (they always ordered takeaway, of course). And John had felt the same, always. He'd always felt most at ease with Sherlock, because he could just be entirely himself without fearing that Sherlock would judge him. Sherlock had accepted him just the way he was, he hadn't always understood him but he'd accepted John and he'd always been eager to learn.  
And now Sherlock is gone, and John doesn't know what to do.

 

Realising that he's been standing in his living room staring blankly at the wall for the better part of five minutes John shakes himself out of his thoughts and heads for the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. He doesn't drink tea anymore, not since that day he prepared two cups - one with more sugar in it than any human should be able to consume - only to realise that the second one would have to go cold because Sherlock wasn't there to drink it. He'd left the cup on the counter for a ridiculous amount of time, unwilling to pour it away, half hoping that Sherlock would walk in to drink it. When he'd eventually realised that that wouldn't happen he'd thrown the cup against the wall, leaving an ugly wet spot of brownish liquid on the wall and a mess of shards on the floor and inside his chest.  
So coffee it is and John's muscles work methodically, preparing the cup without him really paying attention, thoughts miles away. It isn't until he turns towards the kitchen table to sit down that he spots the sleek white envelope sitting atop the wooden surface and he nearly drops his cup in surprise, because that envelope definitely hadn't been there when he left earlier. Frowning, John sets his coffee down so quickly that the liquid spills over his hand but he pays it no mind, ignoring the burning pain as he steps through his flat, checking for any signs of a forced entry on his door and windows - there are none. Strange, he could've sworn that he locked the door when he left, and nobody but him has a key for this flat. Maybe his landlord...but somehow John doesn't quite believe that so he approaches the envelope carefully, slowly stepping closer as if it were a poisonous snake that might bite. He reaches for it hesitantly, his mind rattling at full speed, trying to figure out who might have a reason to break into his flat to give him an envelope. It looks innocent enough at first glance but John knows from years of experience - they'd gotten a lot of different letters at Baker Street, fanmail, warnings, blackmail, the lot - that an envelope magically appearing inside his flat is never a good sign.  
The paper is thick, high quality, and John picks it up carefully, surprised by how lightweight it is - it can't be anything but a letter or some other piece of paper, judging by its weight. He turns it over in his grasp, analysing it from all sides but there's nothing, just a spotless, creamy white envelope, no name written onto it.  
Taking a deep breath John rips it open slowly, his heart hammering inside his chest. He has no idea what the envelope might contain so he peers inside nervously, prepared for all sorts of scenarios - but really, it's just a letter. Huffing out a laugh at his own ridiculousness John shakes his head at himself, maybe the time spent with Sherlock really did make him paranoid. He reaches inside the envelope to pull out the letter, a sheet of paper with the same creamy white, thick texture, a hint of black ink seeping through it, the shadows not quite dark enough for John to make out any words so he unfolds the paper to read what this mysterious letter wants to tell him.  
As soon as he lays eyes on the first word, John's entire world falls apart.

 

John's heart thuds painfully inside his chest at the sight of Sherlock's familiar handwriting, the letters neat but slightly leaned to the side as Sherlocks hand had hurried to keep up with his much faster brain, trying to write down the words before he forgot about them. God, how many times had John watched Sherlock scribble down notes on their kitchen table, the paper stained with chemicals and oils that might have actually been toxic, for all John knew. He can picture it perfectly now, Sherlock writing these words, looming over the table, that frown on his face that always created a line between his eyebrows, bright eyes focused on the paper. Does this mean Sherlock knew he was going to die? Something inside John thinks, ' _of course he did, he's a bloody genius, of course he worked it out_ ' and another part of him screams ' _then why didn't he do anything about it? Why didn't he come up with a plan, why did he jump? Why did he leave me?_ '  
Violently shaking his head John pushes those traitorous thoughts aside and focuses on the letter in his hands. There's no date, and Sherlock could probably deduce when the letter had bee written just from the amount of dust on the paper or the depth with which the ink has sunken into the paper, but John isn't Sherlock, he's just the best friend Sherlock left behind so he doesn't actually know when the letter was written. Probably shortly before Sherlock died, and a lump forms in John's throat that threatens to choke him, his breath coming out in short, painful gasps. Was Sherlock scared, when he wrote this? Did his hands shake? Did he long for reassurance, for someone to help him through it?  
_Why didn't you come to me,_ John thinks resignedly, a sinking feeling in his stomach. _If you knew, why didn't you come to me? We would've figured something out. We would've saved you - I would've saved you._  
But he didn't save Sherlock, he couldn't, so all he's left with are shattered pieces of guilt and memories.

 

  
**John,**

**I'm sorry I'm not there with you. I'm sorry I had to leave you, but a few things had to be taken care of. I had to fall in order for you to be safe.  
I know you don't get bored as easily as I do, but it does happen to you occasionally. Apparently, even placid minds need stimulation now and then. So I decided to give you a puzzle - a treasure hunt, if you will. You have no idea what the treasure will be, but I do hope it will be worth the journey. If I'm right - and I usually always am, but this time I am not entirely sure - you will remember everything as clearly as I do. You don't have a mind palace like me, but the average human long term memory can store enough information for you to solve this puzzle - that is, if you observe and not just see.  
Consider this a distraction, a magical trick.  
The game is on.**

**Sherlock**

 

  
John doesn't quite know whether to laugh or cry, so he settles for a disbelieving snort. _He's dead, and yet he still manages to drive me nuts_ , John thinks in exasperation, a wry smile on his trembling lips. It fades quickly, though, and leaves behind a bitter taste in his mouth.  
"No, Sherlock," he whispers quietly, the letter trembling in his shaking hands, "the game isn't on. The game is over."  
John reads the letter again and again, soaking up Sherlocks words and resisting the urge to press the paper to his cheeks, just to feel the echo of Sherlocks fingertips against his skin.  
"Of course I remember, you sodding idiot," John breathes after he's read the letter for the fourth time and the words slowly begin to make sense. "I remember everything, how could you think I don't?" John doesn't believe in God or heaven, but he wouldn't put it past Sherlock to actually be able to hear him right now. To John, it seems like there's nothing Sherlock couldn't do. _Except_ _for surviv_ in _g_ , he adds bitterly.  
He feels a bit offended that Sherlock would doubt him, did Sherlock really not understand just how much he meant to John? That he was the single most important thing that happened to John in years? That every case, every moment is engraved in John's mind, because no matter how much Sherlock claims the average human brain forgets about everything, John knows that he'll never forget a moment he spent with Sherlock.

 **I had to fall in order for you to be safe**.  
What does that mean?

Dread fills Johns stomach, a shiver running down his back that makes the paper rustle in his unsteady grip. He's standing there in his kitchen, frozen in place, a letter from his dead friend in his hand, and somehow he feels nothing. All the emotions, all the tears have left him, leaving him with a hollow emptiness inside his chest that Sherlock's words resonate through, bouncing of fun hen walls of his ribcage, literally shaking him to his core. He doesn't know what to do or think, doesn't know anything except that it's all too much, too heavy for him to deal with, too much confusion and loss and _pain_ and he doesn't know how to deal with any of it.

John knows where he might find some answers, though, so for the first time in weeks he retrieves his mobile phone and dials Mycroft's number.  
"Dr. Watson," Mycroft's ever so polite voice rings through the line almost as soon as John hits the call button, as if Mycroft had been waiting for his call.  
"Yes, Mycroft, hello," John starts, unsure how to do this. Mycroft and him have always had an...interesting relationship. John knows Mycroft had cared deeply about his brother, but his methods weren't always the best. "How...how are you doing?"  
"Oh, busy as always, John, you know how it is. To what do I owe this call?" _Straight back to business, then_ , John thinks sourly, suppressing the urge to yell at Mycroft. _Your brother just died and you act like you don't care at all_ , John wants to scream but he doesn't, because he knows it wouldn't be fair. He knows Mycroft must be hurting, but the Holmes brothers both have an unconventional way of dealing with emotions. Maybe Mycroft's way is to ignore them.  
"Right, that's...good. Uhm, I just... I got a letter and..." God, how is he supposed to explain this without sounding like he's gone crazy? ' _Oh right, your dead brother just sent me a letter asking me to solve a puzzle, do you happen to know anything about that_?' Frowning, John looks down at the piece of paper in his hand and takes a deep breath.  
"I just got a letter from Sherlock, he must've written it before he died. I...have no clue how it got into my flat and I thought you might know something about it. I also have a few other questions about how...and why, you know..." _he died_ , John finishes in his thoughts but he can't bring himself to say the words out loud, not yet. Mycroft seems to understand what he's trying to say, though, and hums in understanding.  
"I don't know anything about a letter, Dr. Watson, but I'd be willing to meet you to talk about any questions you might have. Would 4pm work for you? I'll send a car."  
Surprised that Mycroft agreed so easily John nods eagerly, until he realises that Mycroft can't actually see him.  
"Yes, that would be great, actually, 4pm sounds good."  
"I'll see you at the Diogenes, John." With that Mycroft hangs up, the beep of a dead line echoing through John's ears. He spends the next two hours sitting on the bed, reading Sherlock's words again and again, trying to make sense of them and getting nowhere.

 

-

 

Mycroft looks just like he always does, impeccable three-piece suit and polished shoes, the picture of British politeness, except for the lines of worry around his eyes that weren't there a few weeks ago. _So he is hurting_ , John thinks to himself, feeling a wave of sympathy run through him.  
"Dr. Watson, hello," Mycroft greets him quietly, holding his hand out towards one of the two armchairs sitting in front of a fireplace, a tray with two steaming cups of tea standing on a table nearby.  
"Mycroft," John nods by way of greeting and sinks down into the offered chair, the fabric expensive against his own cheap jeans. He looks around the by now familiar room, remembering all the times Mycroft had ordered him to come here so they could discuss Sherlock. _Some things ever change_ , John muses with a sad twist to his mouth.  
"What is it that you wish to discuss, then?" Mycroft probes, folding his long fingers in his lap and looking up at John expectantly, his eyes as sharp and assessing as ever.  
"Yes, right," John starts, shifting in the chair so he can pull the letter from the back pocket of his jeans. "This..." he hands the letter over to Mycroft, who takes it with careful fingers and examines the blank envelope, his face unreadable, "magically appeared on my kitchen table this afternoon, I have no idea how it got into my flat. It's from... It's from Sherlock." It feels odd saying Sherlock's name out loud, even though John did so many times before that it's become muscle memory. He's gotten used to the frankly unusual name, an unusual name for an unusual man, but today John feels like his tongue is swollen, stumbling over the word, nearly choking on it.  
Frowning, Mycroft opens the envelope and pulls out the letter, his eyes narrowing as he reads through the familiar handwriting, his face a perfect mask of indifference.  
"And you think I might have something to do with it?" Mycroft raises his eyebrows at John, his voice calm and collected like he didn't just read a letter from his dead brother. Shrugging, John squares his shoulders and shuffles forwards, trying to make himself appear taller under Mycroft's scrutinising glare.  
"Sherlock has been dead for six weeks and suddenly I'm getting a letter he wrote before his death, of course I think you have something to do with it." John takes a deep breath, a shudder running down his spine at his own casual mention of Sherlock's death. His heart begins to thud madly inside his chest in protest, images of Sherlock's cold eyes flooding back into his mind like they always do. Mycroft watches him for a moment longer, watches as John squeezes his eyes shut in pain, then puts the letter down on the table.  
"Well, I don't," Mycroft announces primly, picking up a steaming cup of tea and taking a sip. Shaking his head, John snorts in disbelief.  
"You don't have anything to do with it?" he asks again, just for good measure.  
"No, I don't." John pins Mycroft in place with what he calls his 'soldier glare', the hard look that always worked on Sherlock when John wanted him to clean up the mess he made during an experiment. Mycroft pales a little but otherwise doesn't respond, just stares back at John with a stoic expression that makes John believe he is hiding something. Then again, it seems like Mycroft Holmes is always hiding something.  
"Right. Then how did it get into my flat? Not many people know where I live now." Shrugging, Mycroft sets the teacup back down on the table and crosses his legs, watching John with an almost bored expression.  
"The homeless network, maybe? They all know you, they could've watched you to find out where you live and then picked the lock to deliver the letter, lord knows they're good at that kind of stuff," Mycroft suggests with a purse of his lips that indicates what he thinks of such 'leg work'. Of course Mycroft never actually gets his hands dirty.  
"But why now? It's been six weeks, why deliver it now and not earlier?" Raising his hands in an innocent gesture Mycroft looks at John with open eyes that almost have him believe Mycroft doesn't know anything about the letter, but there's a tiny voice in the back of John's mind that reminds him of just how cunning the man can be.  
"As it says in the letter, Sherlock knew you'd get bored. Maybe he made plans with some of his handymen to get the letter delivered to you after six weeks, to give you some time to grieve."  
"Are you grieving?" John can't help but ask, looking up at Mycroft with open, defeated honesty. He's certain Mycroft is hurting; the other man is trying to hide it as best as he can but there's a stiff tenseness to his shoulders and a hue of blue underneath his eyes that speaks of sleepless nights, much like the ones John has been experiencing himself.  
Mycroft looks down into his lap for a moment, nimble fingers shaking slightly as they pick up an invisible lint from his trousers.  
"More than I ever have before." The admission hangs heavily in the air between them as Mycroft looks up at John with his lips pressed tightly together, the bright blue of his eyes dimmed with sadness and worry. John doesn't quite know what to say, doesn't know how to comfort someone else when he can't even comfort himself so he just nods in understanding and quietly adds, "me too."

 

They sit in silence for a while, the crackle of the fire the only sound interrupting the thick quietness in the room as both men get lost in their own thoughts and memories. John, however, still has questions so he drags his eyes away from the fire that so painfully reminds him of cozy evenings at Baker Street, and picks up the letter again, his eyes skimming over the now familiar words.  
"So he planned all this in advance? Wrote the letter, spoke to his homeless people...he knew he was going to die?" John's voice breaks in the middle of the sentence, the words coming out in nothing more but a croak but Mycroft seems to understand. Slowly, he directs his attention back to John, regarding him quietly before nodding firmly, once.  
"So it seems." It's like a punch in the lungs, the confirmation that Sherlock knew about his death but decided to leave John in the dark about it. Exhaling deeply, John slumps back against the chair in defeat, his heart clenching painfully inside his chest. _Did he not trust me_? John wonders, balling his hands to fists by his sides to try and relieve some of the tension that threatens to choke him from the inside. _Did he not trust me to save him_?  
As if sensing John distress Mycroft leans forward and meets John's gaze with earnest eyes, burning brightly into John's cloudy ones. John tries to breathe, tries to inhale but it's so hard, because Sherlock is gone and he clearly didn't trust him at all and every breath just brings pain.  
"Jim Moriarty made it very clear to my brother that should he refuse to die, the people closest to him would be harmed. Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade...you." Mycroft explains, an unusual softness to his voice that John has never heard before but it wraps around him like a blanket that keeps him together as the words sink in. Sherlock died to protect his friends, to protect him. **I** **had to fall in order for you to be safe.** The words from the letter come back to him, and for a moment John can't breathe. Sherlock... _You bloody idiot_ , John thinks to himself, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes to stop the tears from spilling over as Mycroft's words start to make sense. _He died to protect us, and people think he didn't have a heart. How wrong they were. How wrong we all were_. Sherlock Holmes had the biggest heart, John knew it all along, and now Sherlock is dead and John's own heart has fallen to pieces. _I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm so sorry I didn't stop you, I'm sorry I didn't tell you how wonderful you were, I'm sorry you still felt like you weren't enough because you were, always, more than enough_. Biting down hard on his lip to suppress a sob John turns away from Mycroft's inquiring gaze, unable to stand the scrutiny when his entire world is falling apart. A single tear manages to escape and runs down John's cheek, leaving a wet trace across his skin that John immediately wipes away. Out of the corner of his eyes John can see Mycroft looking away, focusing on the fire rather than John to at least give the illusion of some privacy. For a brief moment, John wonders if Mycroft is the same. If Mycroft has a heart as big as Sherlock's that he keeps hidden behind a brick wall of polite disinterest, just like his brother hid his. As much as they tried to deny it, the Holmes brothers have always been very alike, so maybe... But then another thought crosses John's mind, and he's out of his seat in a second.  
"You!" he yells, furiously pointing a finger at Mycroft who merely regards him with a hint of surprise in his eyes. "You knew about this. Why didn't you stop him? Why didn't you save him?!" John is fuming, clenching and unclenching his fists in sheer fury as he looks down at Mycroft, watches as Mycroft's face falls and a shiver runs through his long body.  
"Because I couldn't."  
And John wants to argue, wants to yell at Mycroft and punch him in the face, but in Mycroft's eyes he sees the same pain that has been haunting him for weeks, the same utter and complete desperation that John knows too well, so he doesn't. Mycroft's simple answer takes all the wind from John's sails and he slumps back into the chair, feeling empty like never before.  
"Bloody hell," he whispers to himself, digging the nails of his fingers into his palm, relishing the slight pain as it distracts him from the pain inside his chest.  
"Bloody hell," Mycroft agrees quietly, both of them staring into the flames.

  
"What do I do now, then?" John asks eventually, his voice rough from his shouting and the following minutes of silence. He looks up at Mycroft who returns the gaze with a new understanding and honesty that comes from sharing deep emotions.  
"If Sherlock Holmes wants you to solve a puzzle, how could you refuse?" Mycroft asks wryly, a small smirk appearing on his face and somehow John finds himself smiling back, and they share little smiles in mutual amusement over Sherlock's demanding nature. Chuckling in bitterness, John shakes his head in disbelief and pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers, forcing himself to focus.  
"How does he do this, Mycroft? Even when he's dead he still commandeers me around like I'm his personal slave." John complains quietly, fondness and exasperation mixing with the sadness in his voice.  
"That's my brother for you, Dr. Watson." Mycroft's smile deepens into the rare, honest smile that John has barely ever seen before. It makes him look a lot more like Sherlock, he realises, and the sight of that smile tugs painfully at the strings of his heart.  
"I guess it is."

 

  
-

 

  
Trudging up the stairs to his flat for the second time today, John feels a bit more settled than he did the first time, like the talk with Mycroft laid something inside him to rest. There's still a heavy weight inside his chest that has been there for weeks, settling into his body and his veins. Somehow, John knows it's never going to leave and he'll just have to learn how to live with the added heaviness, the tightness inside his chest. After Afghanistan, there'd been a similar weight but it had lifted as soon as he'd laid eyes on Sherlock, and with each day of them chasing murderers and solving cases, John had felt a little lighter. Now that weight is back, heavier than ever before, and John fears he might just be crushed under it.  
Sighing, he pulls out his keys, the metal rattling loudly in the empty hallway, the dim light of the setting sun barely illuminating the hallway enough for John to find the lock. Just as he's about to push the key in he looks up and spots a piece of paper stuck to the door with a pin and John's breath hitches in his throat, his eyes widening in surprise. Dropping the keys John carefully reaches out to pluck the paper from his door, examining it but finding no addressee written onto it. As he unfolds the paper he is met with the same black ink and neat but hurried handwriting as in the letter - Sherlock.  
Without reading what the note says john spins around on his heels and rushes down the hallway to the single window overlooking the street, looking outside for anyone walking past, one of Sherlock's homeless people or someone else who doesn't fit in but John can't see anything but the empty street, London slowly settling down after a busy day as the sun begins to disappear over the horizon. Frowning, John heads downstairs, peering into the other corridors in the hopes of finding the deliverer so he can ask what this is about, what Sherlock has planned, but the entire house seems empty.  
Eventually he sinks down on the bottom of the stairs and leans against the wall, eyeing the piece of paper in his hand with frustrated contemplation. What have you planned, Sherlock? John wonders, rubbing his hand over his face in a tired gesture. He's not been sleeping well and today's events have worn him out, mentally rather than physically. He still forces himself to open up the note to read the words tinting the paper.

" **Seek out one of the first Angels I saved, though Angels aren't all innocent.** "

 _That's it?_  John frowns, turning the note over but there's nothing else written there, just that one sentence. _Way to be cryptic, Sherlock_.  
"Angels, angels..." John mumbles to himself, wondering what the hell Sherlock is trying to say. John tries to think like Sherlock would, tries to heighten all his senses and focuses on the note, on anything unusual that captures his attention. He tries to observe instead of just seeing. "Right, so Angels, written with a capital letter not once but twice, so it must be deliberate. Not the noun then, more likely a name. An Angel Sherlock saved - Angelo!" John realises with a start, a small smile spreading across his face as he realises what this means. Angelo was one of the first men Sherlock helped back in the day, when Sherlock proved that he wasn't the murderer. He did commit a crime, though, so this particular angel clearly isn't entirely innocent.

"Well, I guess this is my first clue," John announces to the empty hallway, then pushes himself up from the stairs and leaves the house without even entering his flat, because if Sherlock Holmes asks him to go on a treasure hunt - then that's what he's going to do.


	2. Show Me What I Can't See When The Spark In My Eyes Is Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I present to you, for your pleasure, clues number 2 and 3.
> 
>  
> 
> Songs for this chapter:  
> Youth, Daughter  
> I Of the Storm, Of Monsters And Men  
> When Are We Waking Up, Mallory Knox

"John!" the bulky man greets him enthusiastically, nearly knocking John over when he shakes his hand.  
"Angelo, hello," John's smile is slightly pained and he subtly flexes his hand as soon as Angelo lets go, looking around the familiar small restaurant. "Good to see you again."  
"How have you been? It's horrible, what happened, isn't it?" Angelo lowers his voice, looking at John with a sympathy in his eyes that's become all too familiar to him, there must be something about him that makes people pity him automatically. Maybe it's the bags under his eyes or the sadness etched into his skin in deep lines. Maybe it's the air of hopelessness that seems to surround him wherever he goes.  
"It's...okay," John forces himself him to say, putting on a smile that feels more like a grimace and doesn't seem to assure Angelo in the slightest. "I'm okay," he adds, though he's not quite sure who he's trying to convince, Angelo or himself.  
With a sympathetic smile Angelo leads him to the table right by the window and pushes him down onto the bench before John has the chance to protest.  
"Anything on the menu for free for you, anything you want. You look pale, maybe a good meal will help." Angelo nods enthusiastically and John smiles his assent, he doesn't quite have the heart to tell Angelo that it's not that easy to fix him right now. Angelo sets the menu down in front of him and reminds him, once again, that everything is on the house before he finally retreats to let John look through the menu. John, however, is just staring at the menu in front of him without actually seeing it, his mind alive with memories of the first time he's been here, back when he'd barely known Sherlock. It had been their first case together and John remembers being absolutely terrified but thrilled in equal measures, because there'd been something about Sherlock, a magnetic pull that made John follow him out of the flat and to Angelo's to hunt down a murderer. He'd forgotten his cane in this very room, had just run off without it when Sherlock took off to run after the Cabbie and John had found himself following him halfway through London in the craziest race John's ever been part of. He'd simply forgotten about it, about his limp and the pain in his leg because all he could focus on was Sherlock and the insanity of the situation, the thrill it sent through him. After meeting Sherlock he hadn't needed his cane ever again, because Sherlock cured him of that pain. Sherlock had cured him of a lot of pain, John realises as he stares across at the empty chair at the other end of the table, where Sherlock would be sitting if John's world was still okay. But the world isn't okay. And neither is John.

 

As he waits for his food John lets his thoughts wander back to that first time Sherlock had taken him to Angelo's, remembers how Angelo had automatically assumed they were a couple, just like basically everyone else they encountered. John can't deny that when he'd first laid eyes on Sherlock that's undoubtedly what he wanted. Right from the start there had been something about him that had infallibly drawn John in and it wasn't just his good looks. It had always been more than just bright eyes and cheekbones and curls and those impossible lips, more than slim hips and endless legs. It had been a deeper understanding right from the start, an openness that allowed John to be himself because he knew Sherlock accepted and appreciated him that way.

  
With every day they had spent together Sherlock had become more and more important to him, got bound tighter to John's side. While Sherlock's presence in his life became stronger and stronger John had had to hide more and more, because after that first tentative approach where Sherlock had shot down his advances and explained he considered himself married to his work he hadn't dared to try again. John never admits it, not even to himself, but sometimes, late at night, it had been the mere thought of Sherlock's presence just a few rooms away that had kept the nightmares at bay or that some mornings, after an especially bad dream, the only thing that'd made John get out of bed had been the thought of seeing Sherlock conducting his ridiculous experiments in the kitchen, smiling at whatever progress he made and the realisation he had. _Sherlock had had a beautiful smile_ , John thinks weakly, sighing to himself, _I wonder why he never let the world see it._ John had never understood why he'd been so focused on appearing inhuman when in reality, Sherlock had been the most human person John had ever met, and the worst thing is he'd realised that too late. He, who'd known Sherlock best, hadn't seen just how human his friend had been, how much he'd cared. So Sherlock had jumped, because even John, his best friend, didn't stop him.

Gasping, John violently shakes his head to rid himself of those thoughts but there's a vice clamped around his heart that squeezes painfully and for a moment he can't breathe. Reaching out to pick up a napkin John begins to pluck it apart with shaking fingers, ice cold despite the warmth in the small little restaurant, eyes focused on the little white shreds soon littering the table as he forces himself not to think, not to remember.  
"There you go," Angelo appears out of nowhere, approaching surprisingly quietly for someone of his size and John flinches, looking up at the man with wide eyes as he places a few slices of bread and some sauce on the table as an appetiser. John thanks him absentmindedly and pointedly ignores Angelo's sympathetic glance at the mess of napkin shreds on the table.

  
The dim streetlights cast shadows across the restaurant table, candlelight flickering in a soft breeze and John can't stop his mind from returning to his earlier thoughts because despite Sherlock's apparent insecurities about john's memory he remembers it all, can see Sherlock sitting across from him, the light softening the sharp edges of his jaw and putting a spark in those bright, intelligent eyes. He can feel Sherlock's gaze, usually focused on the street as he'd looked for the murderer but sometimes he'd looked over to regard John for just a moment, maybe a moment too long, watching him quietly, assessing him with a heavy gaze, plump lips slightly parted.

  
It had been a wild night but not in the sense John had anticipated. After shooting down his slightly awkward advances Sherlock had run off to catch a murderer and without hesitation John had followed him. Little had he known that moment would be the start of a habit that would continue for years, a habit John doesn't really mind at all. Not one bit.  
"Welcome to London," John whispers quietly to himself, a bitter chuckle falling from his lips at the memory of the poor American tourist they'd falsely believed to be the murderer. Looking out at London's busy streets now, lights flashing, cars rushing by, rain pouring down, John finds that the city doesn't make sense to him anymore. Nothing in this whole city that he used to love so much is worth a damn without Sherlock. Sherlock, who'd loved this place with all his heart, who'd lived and breathed London and who had taken all the soul and heart of it with him when he died, leaving the city and John's life in ruins.  
Squeezing his eyes shut John thinks back to the first time he'd seen Sherlock in danger, when the man had been so close to swallowing that damn pill the cabbie' given him. Without a second thought John had shot the man, an almost impossible shot through two windows but he had to try, he had to stop Sherlock from getting hurt. He'd only known the man for a few days at the time but still he'd risked everything, his freedom and his sanity, in a heartbeat just to keep him safe. Absentmindedly, John wonders what that says about him, that he'd been willing to risk everything for Sherlock Holmes so early on. Another habit that never really left him in all the time together. Wherever Sherlock led John had followed, ready to pick up the pieces and put Sherlock back together each time he got hurt, ready to fight his way through whatever life threw at him to keep Sherlock safe.  
But he'd failed him. That first time, and every time after, John had always managed to keep Sherlock safe, no matter how deep he got himself into the mess, John had always been there to catch him and protect him, even if it was just from himself.  
Only one time, _one_ time John had failed him, when he'd watched Sherlock jump off St Bart's and he'd stood there without doing anything. But that one time had changed everything, and now John has to live with the consequences.

 

With a lump in his throat John forces himself to open his eyes, to let reality back in and let it calm him, ground him against the rising panic in his veins. As he forces a forkful of pasta into his mouth, barely tasting the food as his appetite has vanished over the last few weeks, he looks around the restaurant, hoping that the familiar room will help him focus. He takes in every detail, focuses his mind on the pattern of the tablecloths and the old tapestry on the walls, takes in the clothes of everyone around to keep his mind from wandering back to that moment, the moment that changed everything. There's a woman in a horrendous yellow dress that doesn't suit her complexion at all, a man at a table in the corner managed to spill wine over his white shirt and a girl at - _hang on_. Narrowing his eyes John looks back down at his own table, then at every other table in the room, then back at the table of the wine stained man. His breath catches in his throat as John realises that he's right, and it might mean nothing, might be completely silly, but there's a pink flower in their vase, amidst a sea of white tulips. Every other table has white tulips, but no pink flower.  
A pink flower. Pink. _A study in pink_. John's been so occupied reliving his time with Sherlock that he completely forgot Sherlock sent him here for a reason, for a riddle he has to solve. One single pink flower in a room full of white flowers?

  
John can see it all so clearly, Sherlock running down the stairs in a boost of sudden excitement, Lestrade racing after him, shouting ' _What mistake_?' and Sherlock, looking up at them with dark curls framing porcelain skin, grinning and yelling ' _pink_!'. Thanks to pink they had been able to solve the cabbie murder. This has to be a sign. John's next clue. Before he knows it he's out of his chair and crosses the small restaurant with just a few steps, reaching the table where wine man and his girlfriend plus parents are sitting.  
"Uhm, hello, good evening," he starts awkwardly, smiling tight-lipped at the four pairs of eyes that land on him in disbelief. "I just... Can I take your flowers?" John is met with silence and blank stares, and yeah, maybe that was a stupid question but really, why are these people so slow? Rolling his eyes, John simply shrugs and reaches for the vase on the table. "Yeah alright, thanks. I'm allergic to the flowers on my table so...Ta very much, enjoy your meal." Ignoring the mutters of protest John takes the flowers and returns to his own table, so fixed on examining the vase that he misses the way Angelo regards him with a knowing smile, whispering to his waiter, both of them grinning broadly.

  
Sinking down into his chair John lifts the vase and sure enough, there's a little note stuck to the bottom of it. With trembling fingers John peels it away from the porcelain and unfolds the piece of paper, the now familiar black ink greeting him.

  
" **He, who hunts in the middle of the crowd, is himself hunted and taken apart; preyed upon by a heavy bullet straight through glass and into the heart**."

  
John shoots out of his chair, leaving his pasta almost untouched as he waves a hasty goodbye to Angelo. It doesn't matter that he's barely eaten or that it's getting close to 10pm, bright lights and London's dark sky greeting him as he runs out of the restaurant. He hails the first taxi he can find and flings himself into the backseat, rattling down the address of a place he remembers just too well. The blood is thrumming through his veins, a heady cocktail that spikes John's adrenaline and he restlessly drums his fingers against his leg, mentally cursing London's never-ending traffic. It's not quite a case, not quite the insane feeling of having Sherlock by his side as they hunt down murderers in ridiculous races but it's close, this is Sherlock leaving a riddle for him to solve and despite the heavy sadness in his heart, John knows he's enjoying this. _He knows me too well. Maybe Sherlock is right. The game is - not on, no. The game could never be on without Sherlock. But maybe this is a different game now._

 

 

-

 

  
The tall building looms in front of him as John runs through the night, large windows watching him like empty eyes and there's the same empty feeling thundering through his chest that he'd had when he saw this place for the first time. Back then, he'd forced his legs to carry him as fast as they possibly could because Sherlock had been in danger. That cabbie had come to get him while John was left behind, but he'd found out where Sherlock was and followed as fast as he could, nearly blind in sheer panic that he might be too late and lose Sherlock. This time, though, there is no panic. Sherlock is already gone and John slows his steps, takes his time to actually take in the building in front of him. It's quite pretty, he supposes, but somehow he doesn't have it in him to regard the building from an objective point of view - there are too many memories connected to this place.  
Shaking his head to get rid of the thoughts John resumes walking until he reaches the front door - it's locked, of course. Squinting to make out the lock in the dim light John kneels down and begins to pick the lock, just like he's seen Sherlock do it so many times. Sherlock had always been faster at it than John, his long fingers nimble and fast whereas John's struggle a bit, but eventually the door opens to reveal a long, empty corridor. There are classrooms to either side of it but John ignores them in favour of jogging up the stairs, taking two steps at a time.  
The door to that one classroom John is looking for doesn't look any different from the others, there's no sign on it to indicate its importance but John doesn't need a sign. He finds the room immediately and only hesitates shortly before pressing down the handle - much to his relief this door isn't locked.  
He steps into the room and looks around, his eyes taking in the board and the desks, looking for the next clue. The air feels thick around him, making it nearly impossible to breathe and John sinks down onto one of the desks, suddenly fearing that his legs will give in under the sudden weight on his shoulders.

  
_This is it_ , John thinks weakly, rubbing his palms over his tired eyes. _This is where he nearly died the first time. I could've lost him right at the start and I didn't, but I lost him all the same_. Had Sherlock been scared, back then? Or had he been too focused on the mystery of the pills, too lost in the game to notice the danger he'd been in? Had he been scared on the roof, facing his own death?  
_No_. _Stop_. John jumps up from the desk with such force that the wood screeches over the tiles, the sound ripping through the tense silence in the room. John crosses the room with a few hasty steps until he reaches the tall windows and leans forward to rest his forehead against the cool glass, keeping his eyes squeezed close as he tries to battle the feelings welling up inside him. It's only when he feels like he won't fall apart any second that he opens his eyes and scans the room again, still finding nothing. No note, nothing written on the board - nothing. Frowning, John pulls out the note again to make sure he got the message right, but he's certain that this is the place Sherlock means. Right here, in this room, the memory of Sherlock is so alive John can almost see him sitting at one of the desks, dark curls askew from the race, just a hint of a rosy blush coating those alabaster cheekbones, bright cerulean eyes focused intensely on the pill in his hand. It was that intense look in Sherlock's eyes that had eventually made John pull the trigger, that slightly manic glint in them, the intense fascination. Sherlock had claimed afterwards that he wouldn't have taken the pill but John never really knew how far Sherlock was willing to go for his experiments. So when he'd seen Sherlock lift the pill to his mouth he hadn't hesitated for a second before shooting the cabbie, straight through the glass and into the man's heart. John's hands hadn't shaken at all, because he'd been determined. Even back then, so shortly after meeting Sherlock, John had known that losing Sherlock would be too painful for him to handle so he'd risked everything, his life and his freedom, he'd risked becoming a murderer and getting arrested to save a man he'd barely known. Even then, there had been something about Sherlock that had pulled John in with full force, that had made his heart beat just a little bit faster. Now, after losing Sherlock for good, it's barely beating at all.

 

Leaning his elbows on the windowsill John peers out of the window, taking in the room across from him. There are no bullet holes, of course the glass had long since been replaced, John doesn't know why he half expected them to still be there. The world had long since moved on from Sherlock Holmes, so why can't he? Why is he still stuck?  
John knows he's got the answers to that questions somewhere deep within him, buried behind a wall of denial and illusionary normalcy, but he's not strong enough to let that wall crumble, not yet. If the wall were to falls, if John let himself admit.... there'd be nothing left for him, _of_ him, everything would lose its sense entirely and he can't face that, not when he's still struggling not to drown in a new wave of despair each day.

  
Just as he's about to turn away to search the other room from where he'd shot the bullet something catches John's eye, a hint of yellow shining faintly in the light of a dim street lamp. With his heartbeat picking up John opens up the window to lean out of it, spotting uncannily familiar symbols spray painted across the wall of the building in an alarming canary yellow. Three Chinese numbers.  
Cursing to himself John realises it's too dark to take pictures with his phone so he rushes to the front desk, knocking his knee against the edge of a desk but he barely noticed in the rush of adrenaline flooding his bloodstream, and rummages around in the drawers until he finds a pen and a notepad - this is a school, after all. His quick sketch of the symbols is an insult to any Chinese person but his hands are trembling with sudden excitement and it's dark, so John just allows himself a small chuckle at the jagged lines before heading outside, leaving the window wide open in his haste. _Oh well_.

 

He walks about two miles into the city until he is able to hail a cab, muttering ' _please don't make me go to sodding China, Sherlock. Not even you could be that crazy_ ,' under his breath. He directs the driver to take him to Marble Arch, hoping that one of the tourist shops on Oxford Street is still open so he can buy a copy of the London A-Z tourist guide that he'll need to decipher Sherlock's message. John knows that the one they'd used during the case is still in one of the shelves at Baker Street, tucked away between chemistry books and some of John's own tattered paperbacks that Sherlock had always raised his eyebrows at, but there's no way John can just walk back in there and casually look for a book. If the memory of Sherlock is that painful at a place they've only been to once, years ago, John doesn't even want to imagine how bad it would be at 221B, right there in their little flat, their safe haven. John doesn't think he could take it so he pays the cabbie and gets out of the car. Oxford street is almost empty at this time of the night, the masses of tourists that normally roam the street nowhere to be seen. There are no bright flashing lights or laughing children, nothing for the city to hide behind. It's just empty, dark buildings, stripped bare for John to see, and despite his earlier thoughts John, maybe for the first time ever, feels connected to this city just like Sherlock always has. John knows Sherlock had loved London with all his heart and right now John is beginning to see why, because on a night like this the city is so pure, raw with no distractions. The buildings loom over him, tall and dark with empty windows gaping at him, long forgotten and lost - it's almost like the city is lonely, and maybe John is, too.

 

John finds one little shop a few roads away from Oxford street that is still more or less open, the owners are restocking the shelves for the next day and John manages to persuade them to sell him a copy of the tourist guide book. With the paperback in his hands John rushes to the next tube stop, which happens to be Bond Street, a horribly confusing mix of shops and platforms that confuses him massively and he almost gets into a westbound train but he manages to stop himself and get on one of the last Jubilee line trains home. His breath only hitches a little bit in his throat when the train passes Baker Street Station.

  
Back in his little flat John flicks on the lights, ignores his growling stomach and just pours himself a cup of coffee to keep him awake before sitting down at his desk, a single lamp in the corner barely providing enough light for him to read. Firing up his laptop John looks up the Chinese symbols, translating them into regular numbers. Once he's got the numbers written down John reaches for the book, opening it up on page _52_ , the first number, and looks for the first word on that page. **Scotland**.  
_Bloody hell_ , John thinks to himself, huffing out a deep breath of air, _not China after all but_   _what am I supposed to do in Scotland, of all places_? He'd never been to Scotland with Sherlock, so why... Shrugging, John decides to give up on questioning Sherlock's motives and instead looks up the next word, page 19. **Yard**.  
_Alright then, that makes a lot more sense_ , John nods his assent to no one in particular, the ticking of his cheap kitchen clock the only noise interrupting the darkness surrounding him.

Scotland Yard is where John and Sherlock had spent a good amount of their time, Sherlock usually busy driving Lestrade up the wall and John asleep on a desk or running down to the vending machine to get Sherlock some crisps. The last clue, on page 224, simply says **Office** and John curses quietly, because 'office at Scotland Yard' is about as precise as someone asking him to look for a tree in a forest. _Well done, Sherlock, well done_ , John thinks grumpily, running a hand across his tired face and closing his burning eyes for a moment. He's tired, his body longing for his bed and his mind longing for a break altogether, but another part of him wonders if Lestrade would hate him terribly much if he were to show up at the Yard at one in the morning...


	3. My Head Is Haunting Me & My Heart Feels Like A Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, I'm sorry that it took me so long to update but Uni was absolutely crazy and I didn't want to upload a crappy, hasty chapter that I'm not happy with. Please forgive me :-)  
> Anyway, here are the next clues and almost 7k words of pure heartbreak. (I'm sorry)
> 
>  
> 
> Songs for this chapter:  
> Still Breathing, Mayday Parade  
> Lonely Hours, Mallory Knox  
> Save Your Heart, Mayday Parade  
> Fallingforyou, The 1975  
> Somebody To Die For, Hurts

 

* * *

 

John doesn't go to the Yard right away. He sits down on his bed, needing just a moment of rest after the insane day he's head, his mind spinning at a hundred miles per hour and his heart aching, all those thoughts of Sherlock making it bleed again like a wound ripped open. His body, however, betrays him and he melts into the mattress, seeking the comfort of his heavy duvet and soft pillow to hide in. He's exhausted, physically and mentally, he'd never quite understood how Sherlock had always managed to stay up for days on end with so little food.  
As much as John's  body is begging for sleep his mind is alive with thoughts and memories, and as he lays awake he finds himself thinking back to the Blind Banker case and to his first date with Sarah, and how Sherlock just showed up out of the blue with that blunt way he always had. John still doesn't quite understand why he thought it would be a good idea to ask Sarah out, he'd never been that interested in her. His lack of interest became painfully obvious later that night, when the poor woman had been kidnapped and nearly killed but John had still only cared about Sherlock, in that bloody tunnel all John had thought about was Sherlock recklessly risking his life to save them all while John had sat there, tied to the chair, silently begging him to stay safe.  
Maybe, John muses, with Sherlock seemingly out of reach he'd convinced himself that Sarah was good for him, she was nice and pretty and smart and John had realised too late that he didn't need nice or pretty or smart. He'd needed a storm, a flame to light his path with a hint of danger, the threat to burn him and everything around him to the ground.

And God, did he get burned.  
If this were a book John would rise from the ashes like a Phoenix, but this isn't a book or a fantasy film. This is real life, and John is just a dead bird lying in the dirt.

 

-

 

Right. He can do this, John decides, giving himself a court nod of encouragement before walking through the glass doors at Scotland Yard, sliding open smoothly to allow him into the building. The clean, sterile smell of an office building hits him as he walks through the lobby, the receptionist giving him a look of sheer surprise but letting him pass through without hesitation, he's been here often enough with Sherlock. It feels odd, walking the familiar hallways now without Sherlock and his dramatic coat whooshing around the sharp corners, without the sound of another pair of shoes echoing through the corridors. John tries his best not to think about it as he makes his way up to Lestrades office, his palms beginning to grow clammy with nervous sweat. He hasn't seen Lestrade since the funeral, has had no reason to seek him out because everything about Greg would only remind him of Sherlock and The Work and it would've been too painful for John to talk to him. John is not quite sure if it's going to be any easier now, after a few weeks have passed, but a feeble twitch of his heart reminds him that no, it will probably never be easier. If he wants to solve Sherlock's puzzle, however, he'll have to go through this and he'll be damned if he stops now, before he had the chance to figure out what Sherlock has planned for him.  
Slowly making his way through the hallway that belongs to Greg's team John spots one of the forensics guys, thankfully not Anderson but another guy he's seen at crime scenes many times but doesn't know the name of. He gives John a polite yet surprised nod and John nods back, approaching the man with an awkward smile on his face.  
"Oh, hello. Is Greg...is Lestrade in?"  
"Yeah, you're lucky, he just got back from a conference. He's in his office." The man unnecessarily points to a door at the end of the corridor and John bites his tongue to keep his snappish reply in, because of course he knows where Lestrade's office is. He's surprised by his own bad temper, everything about this situation puts him on edge but he manages to give the man a small smile and a muttered thanks before heading down the hallway. He knocks at Lestrade's door, three sharp clicks of knuckles against wood before his courage leaves him.  
"Come in," Lestrade calls promptly, his voice gruff from a few cigarettes too many and too much coffee but not enough sleep. A hint of familiarity wraps around John at the sound, a comforting feeling that makes it a bit easier for him to open the door and step into Lestrade's office.

 

The office hasn't changed at all since he's last been here, it's still the hopeless mess of files and empty coffee-stained paper cups that is so typically _Lestrade_ that it makes John's heart clench in regret. He should've visited Lestrade earlier, he realises now as he glances around the office, because Lestrade is a friend and friends are there for each other. Somehow, though, he just couldn't.  
Lestrade himself is sitting in his old creaky office chair, gaping at John with an open mouth and surprise written all over his features, wide eyes full of baffled disbelief. John shrugs helplessly, a small smile toying with the corners of his mouth at the sight of Lestrade being stunned into absolute stillness.  
"Wow," John's friend rasps, snapping out of his shocked state and looking John up and down. "No offence mate, but you look like shit." And that right there is why he loves Lestrade, because there are no accusations, no ' _why did you not come to m_ e' and no ' _did you forget about me?_ ', just open honesty and warm sympathy in his eyes. The blunt statement teases a weak chuckle from John's lips and Greg smiles back, a hopeful little quirk of lips that speaks of too many sleepiness nights and too much pain. John has to remind himself that he's not the only one who lost Sherlock, Greg had known him for much longer than John had and even though the two of them had never been as close as Sherlock and John, they'd still been friends and Greg had always cared deeply for Sherlock.

  
"How...how are you doing?" he forces himself to ask, taking in Lestrade's sunken cheeks and the dark circles under his eyes. Greg points to one of the chairs in front of his desk before mutely shaking his head, giving John a ' _do you really have to ask?_ ' kind of look. With an understanding nod John slumps into the chair, crossing his arms in front of his chest as protection.  
"Yeah, me too," John agrees quietly and Greg grimaces, able to read all he needs to know in those three words. They sit in companionable silence for a while, taking each other in, before Greg clears his throat and gives John an encouraging smile.  
"So, what brings you here today?" he asks curiously, knowing John well enough to guess that he didn't just come without a reason. Sitting up in the chair John tries to find the right words to tell Lestrade what's going on without sounding like he completely lost his mind. Which, in fact...his dead best friend sent him on a treasure hunt. Is there really anything to add?  
"Ah, well," John starts, helplessly scratching the back of his head and pulling at his hair in frustration. "That's a bit of a difficult thing to explain. A couple days ago I got a letter, from Sherlock, and..."  
"From Sherlock?" Greg interrupts, his eyebrows rising until they almost reach his hairline, cheeks whitening in shock. Swallowing harshly, John nods once.  
"Yeah, he wrote it before...you know. He said he knew I'd get bored eventually, without him dragging me around London, so he organised a little 'treasure hunt' for me. I don't know where this leads but he left clues and messages for me at different places, and one of them leads me to your office."  
"Sherlock wrote you a letter, before he died? He organised..." Greg repeats, dumbstruck, and John watches as his face changes, his features contorting in horror as he comes to the same conclusion as John. "He knew, then?" Greg whispers, voice rough, and John can only nod, wishing he could comfort Lestrade as his friend squeezes his eyes shut and turns away from him, hiding his face. What can he do, though? The only thing he can offer is an explanation and John hurriedly speaks up, telling Lestrade all he knows.  
"It was Moriarty's plan all along and Sherlock apparently saw right through it. He..there were snipers, three of them. One for Mrs. Hudson, one for you, and one for me. He had to jump so we'd be safe." Saying the last sentence out loud nearly kills him and the words are barely a whisper as they tear John's heart apart, once again, always.  
"Bloody hell." Greg doesn't say anything else but John can see it all in his eyes, the same guilt and regret and pain that he's felt ever since found out, the same ' _why didn't he come to me?_ ' and the ' _why didn't he let me help him?_ ' and, eventually, the realisation that hurts the most, the ' _I failed him_ '.  
The silence stretches on between them and John doesn't dare break it, lets Lestrade have his moment to collect himself in peace while John sits there, waiting patiently because he knows exactly what his friend is going through, he knows it too well.  
"I don't know what to say," Greg admits quietly and John vows not to point out the dampness between the DI's lashes.  
"I know," John promises in understanding, the relief in Greg's eyes making him reach out across the table to squeeze his friend's shoulder. "There's nothing we can say."

  
"So...a treasure hunt?" Greg repeats John's words from earlier, the forceful change of topic so painfully obvious but John gladly takes it, welcoming the distraction from death and guilt and hurt.  
"Yes, right. He has me running all across London for some strange clues, I don't know where this leads and I don't even know why I'm doing this at all but here I am." John admits, and a small but genuine smile flashes across Greg's face, lightening the darkness in his eyes.  
"He's Sherlock Holmes and you're John Watson, that's why. It's that simple." Lestrade's words are like a punch in the face and John swallows, hard, to get rid of the lump forming in his throat because they're the truest words he's heard in a long time. It _is_ that simple.  
"Maybe it is," he admits quietly, and before the sheer force of that thought can drown him John squares his shoulders and carries on. "Anyway, his last clue simply said 'Scotland Yard, Office' so here I am."  
"Right, okay. What exactly are you looking for?" Greg wonders, eyeing the mess in his office with a weary eye. Shrugging, John sends him a slightly embarrassed glance.  
"I don't actually know. Some piece of paper, I guess." Greg looks pointedly at two gigantic stacks of files on his desk and both of them dissolve into laughter that is too forceful, too loud in the small room, and feels too much like relief.  
With one last chuckle Greg pushes himself off his chair, his spine popping in protest as he stretches.  
"I'm afraid I'm not much help then, so how about I go and get us some coffee while you search through this mess?" he suggests, helplessly running his hand through his already messy hair. John agrees absentmindedly, too busy scanning the room for a possible clue to pay too much attention to his friend.  
With his hand already on the handle Greg freezes, looking back at John with an unreadable expression in his eyes.

"You know, I always thought... You two would eventually..." And that does get John's attention. Greg stops talking, watching John carefully but John doesn't need him to go on, he knows exactly what Lestrade is trying to say.  
_Me too_ , John agrees quietly, a hopeless whisper his mind can't quite suppress. He doesn't dare say it out loud. Instead, he just stiffly shakes his head and keeps his eyes cast to the floor.  
"You were good for him." Greg adds solemnly, his voice strong, forceful, but everything inside John still screams in protest.  
"I failed him. I let him die." John says, the words a low murmur - he doesn't have the strength to say it louder.  
"If Sherlock is convinced of something, nobody could ever stop him. You and I both know that. It wasn't your fault." Greg tries to comfort him, tries his best to ease John's guilt but all it does is make John feel even worse, and he looks up at his friend with a plea in his eyes, a plea for Greg to understand, to see the guilt that threatens to crush him under its sheer weight.  
"I was his best friend and even I didn't realise...how could I not have realised just how human he was?" John voices his biggest regret, dropping his head in defeat as if all his strength has left his body along with the words.  
"You've always been more than his best friend, John," Lestrade murmurs, the noise of protest dying in John's throat when his friend shakes his head. "Maybe you didn't realise it and maybe he didn't realise it either, but you were never just his best friend."  
They stare at each other for a moment, Greg daring John to say something, to deny it and John wants to, he really does but somehow he can't. There's an underlying truth in Greg's words, a truth that echoes through his mind and his chest until it settles somewhere deep inside John's veins, where not even his blood can wash it away.  
"Right, I'll let you have a look around, tell me if you need anything." Greg slips out of the door, leaving John behind in his messy office with an equally messy mind and his thoughts racing a hundred miles per hour.  
"No, no, _no_ ," John whispers frantically, slamming his fist down onto the table in frustration as he fights back the thoughts that come with Greg's words. He shoves them into a dark corner in the back of his mind, refuses to think about them now when he has a clue to find. Thoughts like that are meant for the night, when there's no one but John and the stars to witness his breakdown.  
With his mind carefully blank John begins to search through the office, ripping open the cabinets and looking through Greg's paper bin, looking for everything that seems out of place. He has no clue how long he's been in Greg's office when a thought strikes him and he turns towards the bookshelf in the back of the room. The last clue was in a book, so maybe...  
"There you are," John breathes, grinning at the little black serviette folded into a lotus flower in his palm. He unfolds it carefully and is greeted by a tiny shred of creamy white paper, a few words written on it.

  
**All your little puzzles, making me dance.**

 

Frowning, John stares at the little piece of paper in utter betrayal because he has absolutely no idea what this is supposed to mean. Dance? He's never seen Sherlock dance.  
"Fucking hell," he whispers, rubbing his palm across his face in frustration before pocketing both the serviette and the piece of paper. Ripping out a sheet from the notepad on Greg's desk John scribbles a hasty note to Lestrade, telling him he found the clue and that he'll keep Greg updated, before dashing out of the room and hurrying down the corridor towards the elevator. He needs fresh air and space to think, and most of all he needs to get away before Greg can say anything else that will turn John's world upside down.  
_It's that simple._  
You've always been more than his best friend.  
"Bloody fucking hell."

 

 

Back at his flat John pours himself a cup of coffee and sits down at the kitchen table, burying his face in his hands. He can't stop the thoughts now, can't keep them at bay any longer and the coffee slowly grows cold as John turns Greg's words over in his head.  
John had always believed that Sherlock hadn't felt things that way, that's he'd never been interested in romance or sex, his body just transport and nothing else. Thinking about it now, however, John realises that maybe he'd been wrong, just like he'd been wrong about everything else. Sherlock had felt so much, he knows that now. He'd known it all along, that Sherlock's 'high functioning sociopath' image was bullshit but even John had underestimated the true depth of Sherlock's feelings. What if he'd gotten other things wrong, as well? There had been moments, lingering glances and touches, soft smiles and gentle laughter, Sherlock hovering too close for it to be considered polite. Everyone had always assumed they were a couple, there must've been a reason for people thinking they were together.  
They had all been there, John realises now with a painful twist of his heart, the signs, but he'd been too busy pretending that he didn't feel anything for Sherlock to notice. Or maybe he just hadn't let himself notice, maybe he'd been deliberately blind because convincing himself that Sherlock wasn't interested had been so much easier than figuring out his own feelings and admitting that there'd been more between them, a flame to nurture, a possible relationship to build.  
John presses his fist against his lips and bites down hard on his knuckles in despair, desperate to distract himself from the pain of the possibilities lost because he'd been too scared, the chances missed due to blind ignorance. He can't quite imagine what kind of lover Sherlock would be - would he ditch his experiments in favour of sleeping in and cuddling in the morning? _Probably not_ , John shakes his head knowingly. _He'd probably conduct experiments with his lover, setting them on fire while they're asleep or something like that._ John immediately dismisses that thought, however, because this is exactly the kind of underestimation of Sherlock's humanity that got John into this situation in the first place. It's hard to picture Sherlock getting close to anyone at all, but after everything John knows better now. He knows how much Sherlock is capable of love, and he's got a stealthy feeling that Sherlock would be absolutely starving for any kind of contact, that he's secretly a gigantic cuddler even though he'd never admit it. _The saddest thing_ , John flinches at his own thoughts, is that Sherlock has probably no idea how good it can feel to be close to another person. I don't think he's ever been loved.  
As he sits there in the kitchen of a new flat that feels empty not for a lack of furniture but for a lack of Sherlock, a lack of 221B, of feeling like home, with his heart shattering inside his chest John, for a moment, just for a moment, lets himself speculate, considers the thought that he usually keeps carefully tucked away inside his head. If he were to get another chance, would he do things differently?  
_Yes_ , John thinks immediately, _yes I would. If I had the chance, I'd tell him. I'd tell him that he's the most ridiculous, agitating and brilliant man I've ever met. I'd tell him that he drives me up the wall more times than not but I wouldn't have it any other way. I'd tell him that I know he's a giant softie, deep down, and that it's nothing to be scared of. I'd be there for him through thick and thin, I'd make him tea and clean up after his messy experiments and I'd chase criminals with him and I'd make sure he knows that I accept him for who he is, in all his glorious, infuriating brilliance. But most of all, I'd tell him...I'd tell him that I love him._

 

  
-

 

  
The light is reflected off the water, eerie green and blue shadows dancing across the walls as John steps into the pool, his own steps echoing loudly through the empty room. A shiver runs down his spine, making John's body tremble despite the thick jumper he's wearing, and he carefully moves further into the room, looking around for Sherlock's next clue. The solution for the last one had come to him late last night - or rather early this morning, when he'd woken up from a nightmare that hasn't haunted him in forever: Sherlock, standing next to the pool in his impeccable suit, trying to lure Moriarty out of his hiding place. He'd dreamed about that moment a lot, back then right after it happened, but seeing Sherlock alive and well day after day had kept the nightmare at bay, and lately it has been replaced with different dreams, equally terrifying, maybe even more terrifying. Something about Sherlock's note must have triggered John's subconscious into remembering that moment, however, because he woke up screaming, still feeling the straps of the bomb wrapped around him.

 

At first glance there's nothing here, nothing but the unmoving water of the pool and the green tiles on the walls, polished and clean.  
Memories hit John like a freight train, running him over, threatening to swallow him and he gasps, stumbling sideways into the wall, leaning against it heavily just to stay upright as his own legs begin to give in. This place is probably one of the worst, John reckons, the taste of fear still tangible on his tongue, the echo of the bomb wrapped around his torso still making his skin itch. John had been prepared to die, in this very room, so many months ago. Moriarty had taken him hostage, had wrapped him up in a bomb and John had been so certain that he was going to die, had been terrified beyond belief when Moriarty had led him into the swimming pool.  
Then John had seen Sherlock walk in, thinking he was oh so clever, thinking he could play Moriarty when in reality, he'd just been playing along to Moriarty's rules and John had never felt fear so wholly, had never felt it pump through his veins quite so strongly. He'd felt fear before, many times; in Afghanistan and back when he thought he'd failed his final test before graduating, John recalls with a weak smile, but this? It had been different, somehow. More complete. More terrifying than ever before.  
John remembers it all so clearly, the way his heart had leapt inside his chest at the sight of Sherlock, tall and almost ethereal in the dim turquoise light that made his eyes shine in bright teal, almost the same colour as the water to John's left. He remembers the look of utter fear on Sherlock's face when he'd laid eyes on John, those bright eyes blinking disbelievingly, gazing into John's with such intent that John had wondered what Sherlock was trying to find there.  
With his heart hammering inside his chest so fiercely that John fears it'll break his ribcage he sinks to the cold but thankfully dry floor, leaning his head back against the cool tiles on the wall as he relives one of his strongest moments of fear. Funnily enough, John thinks bitterly, it hadn't been fear for his own life that had made his blood boil. It had been the laser pointer pointed to Sherlock's forehead that had made his heart shatter, the realisation that no matter what John did, Sherlock wouldn't make it out alive. John had been willing to give his life for Sherlock without hesitation, once again, had been willing to let Moriarty blow him up in this sodding pool if it had meant Sherlock could walk out alive. The thought of those turquoise orbs staring back at him lifelessly as that incredible brain shut down completely, Sherlock's body growing cold on the reddened tiles - back then, John couldn't imagine anything more horrifying. Now that he's seen exactly that, now that he knows what it feels like to hold Sherlock's dying body he knows the horrors he'd imagined were nothing close to the true pain of losing Sherlock.

  
Pressing his fists to his eyes to stop the tears from pouring out John reaches for a lifeline, a memory that will ground him and his mind obeys, serving him the image of Sherlock's face when Moriarty left, that look of utter and heartbreaking relief that nearly brought John to his knees when Sherlock tore the belt off John's body, throwing the bomb as far away as he could. His fingers had been gentle on John's body despite the urgency, had fit right into the hollows of his bones and muscles as he made sure John was okay, and something had come alive in John's heart just then, a part of him that he'd worked so hard to suppress at all times but in that moment Sherlock had seemed to feel it to - that overwhelming need to be close, to be reassured that he wasn't alone, to just breathe together. It had nearly undone him, seeing Sherlock so vulnerable, so raw and exposed with those beautiful eyes trained intently on John's, that deep voice shaking as he thanked John for offering to save his life. John still doesn't understand how people ever thought Sherlock was void of feelings - Sherlock had always felt so much, no matter how much he'd tried to deny it. And right then, in that moment, it had been so, so painfully obvious that John had wanted nothing more than to reach out, wrap Sherlock up in his arms...but they'd been interrupted by Moriarty's return and John had shoved those thoughts away, had banned them from his brain into that dark corner of his mind, the corner that he kept well hidden from everyone, especially Sherlock.

  
John does the same thing now, shoves his thoughts away and stumbles to his feet, refusing to wallow in self-pity. He has a task to fulfil, a riddle to solve, so he pushes himself up from the floor and focuses. He scans the walls, the sides of the pool but there's nothing so he walks further into the room, checks the benches and changing rooms but still, nothing. Nothing but lockers and empty stalls. Narrowing his eyes John examines the lockers closely but they're pasted up with stickers and writings from the kids in the swim team, lots of stick figures and hearts and names, but nothing from Sherlock.  
"Cmon, John," he tries to encourage himself, whispering into the darkness of the empty room, "observe. There's got to be something...." A drawing on one locker catches his eye, a huge heart set on fire drawn over a bunch of stickers so it must be fairly new, and Moriarty's voice rings through John's ears, _I will burn the heart out of you_. With anger welling up inside him John thinks back to how Sherlock was convinced he didn't have a heart and shakes his head in exasperation at how stupid Sherlock had been in some regards. _If you didn't have a heart, why did you give your life for the people you love?_ John thinks sadly but he refuses to dwell on it now. Instead, he focuses on the locker in front of him, which is of course locked. For a moment he panics, knowing that he didn't see a key or a code anywhere in the room but then he simply tries the Chinese numbers from before, 52, 19, 24. With a gruesome creak the locker door swings open, revealing a pair of shoes.  
Taking a deep breath John reaches for the pair of trainers, very similar to the one Carl Powers wore but not quite the same, these are newer, less worn out. For a split second John panics, because there's no way in hell he'll be able to deduce where the shoes came from and who wore them like Sherlock could. But then he notices the note stuck into one of the shoes and breathes out a sigh of relief before grinning bitterly, thinking fondly, _way to make it obvious that I'm not as smart as you, Sherlock._  
His relief only lasts for about five seconds though, until he unfolds the sheet of paper and reads the poem written on it, because John, once again, understands absolutely nothing.

 

" **Only until this cigarette is ended  
A little moment at the end of all  
While on vitreous trays the ashes fall  
In chandelier light to a lance extended  
Bizarrely with the golden glory blended  
The broken glances watching from the wall  
I will permit your memory to recall  
The vision of me, before I had ended."  
\- based on a poem by Edna St Vincent Millay, I took the liberty to adjust it to my needs. - SH**

 

For a moment John blinks at the poem, stunned. He'd long since given up on wondering how on earth Sherlock had managed to do this, to arrange all this before his death. _He's Sherlock Holmes,_ John thinks fondly, _there's nothing he can't do. Except for surviving, of course._  
"Right," John mumbles dryly to himself, reading the poem again but still getting absolutely nowhere. "What are you trying to tell me, Sherlock?" He feels a bit silly talking out loud like this but there's no one in the room who could hear him and make fun of him. Plus, Sherlock had always said talking out loud helped him think, which is why he used to talk to that bloody skull before he met John. Nice to know that he was about as important as a skull, John's brain remarks sarcastically, but deep down John knows it's not true. He'd been much more important to Sherlock. John may not quite understand how or why, but he knows he'd been important to Sherlock. Almost as important as Sherlock has been to him.

  
"Let's go through this line by line," John decides, furrowing his brows as he reads the words again. "Cigarette, okay. We've got a cigarette, and ashtrays?" he mumbles, "glass ashtrays. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to pick a sodding poem that no one understands. Deletes the solar system from his brain but remembers poems. What a genius," John curses but he doesn't mean it, he'd always been fond of the frankly odd way Sherlock's brain had worked. John slowly walks towards the exit, eyes still focused on the poem as he steps out into a rainy London.

"Cigarettes, glass ashtrays, and chandeliers? Sounds fancy. Golden glory. Broken glances, what?" Frowning, John hails a cab and sinks into the backseat, directing the driver to his flat. His brain is going into overdrive, turning the words over in his head, trying to make sense of them. So far all of the places Sherlock sent him to were places they'd been to together, so where had they been together that was fancy and pompous enough for chandeliers?  
As John looks out into the smudgy city, raindrops running down the window and obscuring the view, a sudden image comes to his mind, almost unbidden. Sherlock, somehow looking ethereal wrapped in just a sheet that is almost as white as his alabaster skin, more precious than all the golden splendour around him. Sherlock in the taxi, flipping the ashtray he stole in the air. Sherlock fooling the client with the question about the cigarette.  
"Buckingham Palace," John realises, baffled.  
"Sorry, Sir?" The cabbie asks, looking at John through the rear view mirror. "Is there a change of destination?"  
"No no, it's all good," John assures him distractedly, because even if he went to Buckingham Palace now there's no way he'd get in. John thanks the cabbie and pays him, then trudges up the stairs to his flat with heavy steps, his body weighed down by exhaustion but his mind still spinning at 80 miles per hour. How is he supposed to get into Buckingham Palace? It's not like he can just walk in there and say 'hi, Sherlock Holmes sent me and -'  
"Not Sherlock," John muses, nodding to himself with a pleased smile on his face. "But a different Holmes."

 

 

-

 

 

"John Watson, again. What can I do for you this time? Did you already solve the riddle?" Mycroft's voice is pleasant and friendly, a hint of the annoyed amusement in it that is so typically _Mycroft_ that it makes John smile.  
"I solved a few of his clues but now I'm stuck. I need a favour, Mycroft. Sherlock's last hint - I think you need to get me into Buckingham Palace." John holds his breath, waiting anxiously for what Mycroft has to say to this frankly ridiculous request. There's silence at the other end of the line, then a disbelieving chuckle falls from Mycroft's lips, the one he'd always make whenever he thought Sherlock was being absolutely ridiculous. Gritting his teeth, John balls his free hand to a fist and tries not to snap at Mycroft.  
"No, I'm serious. His last clue was a poem and I think the solution for it is Buckingham Palace."  
"Can you read it to me, please?" Mycroft requests after a moment of contemplation and John digs the piece of paper out of his pocket.  
"See, the smoking thing, the ashtray, chandeliers and golden glory - it has to be a place Sherlock and I visited together and Buckingham Palace is the only place I can think of that fits the description," John explains patiently, annoyed that Mycroft is slowing him down wondering how the other man can't see how obvious the solution is. Is this how Sherlock had felt all the time? "The only thing I can't make sense of are the broken glances watching from the wall..." John admits, lifting his hand to scratch helplessly at the back of his head.  
"Portraits," Mycroft blurts suddenly, "he must mean the portraits hung up all over the palace, seemingly watching what's going on but they're not alive." And, oh...  
"Portraits, yes," John repeats with awe clear in his voice, "thank you. So you believe me that it has to be Buckingham Palace?" he asks hopefully, unable to keep the begging tone from his voice. He needs Mycroft to help him, the mere thought of not being able to continue this treasure hunt makes his stomach clench. John doesn't even care about the prize at the end, but this is something Sherlock organised for him and John finds a piece of Sherlock in every clue, every task - he doesn't want it to stop, wants to keep Sherlock alive for a little bit longer.  
"I do," Mycroft admits eventually, sounding resigned, "I'll send a car for you, tomorrow at 8." Relief floods through John's veins, much stronger than he'd like to admit.  
"Thank you," he breathes, sinking down onto his bed as his legs suddenly begin to shake, the adrenaline and emotions from the day leaving him exhausted. "Really, Mycroft, thank you."  
"It's not a problem, John. I'm intrigued to see just what my brother has come up with at the end of this puzzle."  
"Me, too," John agrees, briefly closing his eyes as he sinks back into his pillow. "And maybe treasure hunt is a better word for it, since he has me running around London like a nutter."  
"A treasure hunt," Mycroft repeats with that sour voice of his that indicates what he thinks of such childish rubbish. "How very Sherlockian, since he originally wanted to be a pirate." A disbelieving snort bursts out of John's mouth, and soon enough the image of Sherlock with a pirate hat and wooden leg, talking to a parrot instead of his skull, has John in stitches.  
"Yeah, somehow I can picture that perfectly."  
"He would've been a very good pirate," Mycroft agrees mildly, and if John is not completely mistaken there's a hint of that fondness Mycroft always tries his hardest to hide in his voice. It makes John's smile softer, deeper.  
"Goodnight, Mycroft. And thank you, again."  
"Goodnight, John." Mycroft's soft voice is followed by the beep of an ended call, and John falls asleep with his phone still in his hand and a small smile on his face.

 

  
-

 

  
He wakes long before 8am the next morning after a restless night of fitful sleep. He'd tossed and turned in his bed, impatient to continue with Sherlock's treasure hunt but at least there'd been no nightmare. As he sips his coffee John reads Sherlock's poem again and decides to look up the original poem, so he fires up his laptop and heads into the kitchen to grab a few slices of toast. His morning routine always hurts the most because it always takes him right back to the mornings they'd shared at 221B, Sherlock grumpily requesting tea and refusing to eat his toast unless it was completely smothered in jam, but not the raspberry kind, no. Damn raspberry jam. Evil raspberry jam. Chuckling weakly at the memory of Sherlock's disgusted face that one time John had bought the offending raspberry jam, John braces his arms on the kitchen counter and lets his head hang low, squeezing his eyes shut.  
Some people say it hurts the most at night, when it's dark and you're left alone with your fears, but sometimes it's 7 in the morning and John is standing in the kitchen, waiting for the toast to pop, and the smell of tea and jam makes him miss Sherlock so much that he doesn't know what to do with himself. Fighting back the images of Sherlock wrapped up in that silky blue robe that absolutely shouldn't have been as alluring as it was, his hair a mess of soft brown ringlets and those bright eyes muted and soft with lingering sleep, John manages to get himself out of his head while the toast is still warm and trudges back into his bedroom, where he opens Google and looks up the poem. Sherlock, as it turns out, had left the second part of it out.

 

" **I will permit my memory to recall  
The vision of you, by all my dreams attended.  
And then adieu,--farewell!--the dream is done.  
Yours is a face of which I can forget  
The colour and the features, every one,  
The words not ever, and the smiles not yet;** "

 

"The vision of you, by all my dreams attended..." John whispers into the early morning light, the words making a strange sort of sense to him because he dreams of Sherlock all the time. It used to be dreams about Afghanistan that haunted John, now it's Sherlock's face or his voice or the endless absence of him. Absentmindedly, he wonders if Sherlock had ever dreamed about him. Probably not, John decides dismissively. _That's probably why he left it out, because he doesn't understand the sentiment_. But there's a tiny voice in the back of his mind saying, _maybe he didn't leave it out because it's not true but because it's too true_. John ignores that voice.  
A funny aching feeling spreads through John's chest, the words echoing through his head and settling deep inside his heart. He knows he will never forget Sherlock, he couldn't even if he tried. Sherlock had been the most important person in John's life, his best friend and maybe more than that. John had certainly wanted it to be more at times but he'd been too scared to say something, for fear of Sherlock rejecting him again. So he'd kept quiet, had locked his heart away and now Sherlock is gone forever and the feeling pumping through John's veins feels a lot like heartbreak.  
There's a gaping hole inside John's chest, but it's more than just that. _Sherlock's not just missing_ , John realises, _he's missing **from** me. Like eyesight, like a limb torn off. He's a part of me, of my body and of my life and I cannot function properly without him. Maybe I cannot function at all._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And then you left  
> Left me hanging, left me speechless  
> Nothing but empty space in my head  
> And pain inside my chest  
> And the only word I could scream  
> Was your name  
> It was the only thing I could remember  
> My lips forming it so effortlessly  
> Like it's muscle memory  
> Like you're still a part of me.
> 
>  
> 
> (this is one of my own poems, it doesn't have any relevance for the story but I thought it's quite fitting so I decided to add it, I hope you like it xx)


End file.
